The front doors closed with a quiet, heavy click.
Zhan had left for work.
His presence faded from the mansion the way a storm leaves—suddenly, and yet the air still remembers it.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Yibo sat cross-legged on the carpet near the sofa, carefully lining up wooden blocks by color. Blue with blue. Red with red. Yellow with yellow.
He hummed softly to himself.
Peaceful.
Unaware.
Then—
one servant peeked from the hallway.
Another leaned from behind a pillar.
One of the guards shifted near the staircase.
The old housekeeper stepped forward slowly.
They all looked at Yibo.
Then at each other.
Silent communication passed between them.
Now?
Now.
The housekeeper cleared her throat gently.
"…Madam."
Yibo looked up immediately.
His eyes brightened politely.
"…Yes?"
He always answered when called.
Always.
She walked closer, folding her hands in front of her apron.
"…May we sit with you for a moment?"
Yibo nodded at once.
"…Okay."
He scooted slightly to make space, even though the carpet was huge.
Because sharing space was polite.
Soon, there was a quiet semicircle around him.
Servants.
Guards.
All pretending they weren't nervous.
Because they were about to explain something extremely delicate…
…to someone who understood the world like a child.
Yibo tilted his head.
"…Meeting?"
One guard coughed softly.
"…Something like that."
The housekeeper smiled gently.
"…We want to tell you something important about Sir."
Yibo's attention sharpened instantly.
"…Husband?"
"Yes."
He straightened his posture.
Hands on knees.
Serious.
Ready to listen.
"…Does Sir look at you often?" she asked.
Yibo nodded.
"…Yes. Husband look lot."
A maid exchanged a glance with another.
Lot was an understatement.
"…Do you notice where he looks?" the housekeeper asked carefully.
Yibo thought.
Really thought.
Brows furrowed.
After a few seconds—
"…Face?"
The servants hesitated.
"…More specifically?" she prompted softly.
Yibo blinked.
Then guessed—
"…Nose?"
One guard turned away, covering his mouth.
Another stared very hard at the floor.
"…Not nose," the housekeeper said gently.
"…Oh."
He thought again.
Longer this time.
His eyes widened slightly with realization.
"…Mouth."
The servants nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Yibo looked confused.
"…Why?"
There it was.
The question.
Pure.
Innocent.
Genuine.
The servants glanced at each other again.
Who would say it?
Who would explain it?
Finally, one younger maid whispered bravely—
"…Because Sir wants something."
Yibo blinked.
"…Want?"
"Yes."
"…Food?"
"…No."
"…Tea?"
"…No."
"…Medicine?"
"…No."
He looked increasingly puzzled.
"…Then what husband want?"
Silence.
The maids nudged one guard.
The guard nudged another.
Finally the old housekeeper sighed softly and spoke in the gentlest voice she could manage.
"…He wants a kiss."
Yibo froze.
Not dramatically.
Just completely still.
Like someone had pressed pause on him.
"…Kiss?" he repeated quietly.
A maid nodded.
"Yes."
Yibo processed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
"…Like… cartoon prince kiss princess?" he asked.
"…Yes," she said softly.
"…Oh."
He looked down at his hands.
Thinking.
Thinking hard.
Then—
"…Why?"
The servants' hearts collectively squeezed.
Because that why wasn't shy.
It wasn't embarrassed.
It was sincere confusion.
"…Because he likes you," one guard said gently.
Yibo blinked up.
"…Husband like wife?"
"Yes."
"…Little like?"
The housekeeper smiled faintly.
"…Maybe more than little."
Yibo's lips parted slightly.
He absorbed that information like it was fragile glass.
"…But…" he said slowly, "…husband no say."
"…Some people don't say," she explained. "Some people show."
"…Show?"
"Yes. By looking."
Yibo thought again.
"…Looking mean want kiss?"
"…Sometimes."
"…Oh."
He considered that very seriously.
Then asked softly—
"…Then why husband no kiss?"
The servants exchanged looks.
Because that question had only one honest answer.
"…Because Sir is proud," the housekeeper said.
"…Proud?"
"Yes. He doesn't like admitting he wants things."
Yibo nodded slowly.
That made sense to him.
Pride was like stubborn.
He understood stubborn.
"…So husband want… but not do?" he confirmed.
"Yes."
"…Because proud?"
"Yes."
Yibo absorbed that.
Very carefully.
Like a lesson.
Then he whispered thoughtfully—
"…Husband strange."
One guard coughed to hide a laugh.
Yibo looked down again, fingers fidgeting slightly.
"…If husband want… he should ask," he said simply.
The servants smiled.
Because that was Yibo's world.
Clear.
Direct.
Honest.
After a moment, he looked up again.
"…Kiss make husband happy?"
The housekeeper's eyes softened.
"…Probably."
Yibo nodded once.
Serious.
Decision made.
"…Okay."
The servants blinked.
"…Okay?" one echoed.
"…Yes."
He picked up a red block and placed it carefully beside a blue one.
"…When husband come back… Bobo give."
Silence.
"…Give what?" a maid asked softly.
Yibo looked up innocently.
"…Kiss."
Several servants immediately looked away, pretending to check things that did not need checking.
One guard muttered under his breath—
"…Sir isn't ready for that."
Yibo, however, simply smiled faintly to himself.
Not shy.
Not flustered.
Not nervous.
Just… decided.
Because in his world—
if someone wanted something…
you gave it.
Yibo's lips were still parted from the sudden kiss when he whispered, breath trembling, "H-husband… wait…"
Zhan froze instantly.
It was as if someone had pressed pause on his whole body. His arms were still around Yibo, still holding him slightly lifted from the floor, but his lips stopped moving at once. His eyes shifted slowly to Yibo's face.
Yibo looked… startled.
Not scared. Not upset. Just overwhelmed — like a kitten who had chased a butterfly and then didn't know what to do when it actually landed on his nose.
Zhan's voice came out low and rough.
"…What?"
Yibo swallowed. His fingers, small and unsure, clutched lightly at Zhan's collar.
"I… don't know how," he admitted honestly, cheeks pink. "Servants said kiss… but they didn't say how long… or what to do when lips move…"
Zhan stared at him.
For a second, silence filled the room.
Then something strange happened inside Zhan's chest — something soft, something warm, something that made his heartbeat lose its usual steady rhythm.
"…You don't know?" he asked quietly.
Yibo shook his head, hair brushing his forehead. "I only know pressing lips. Like this." He leaned forward a tiny bit and gently pressed his lips against Zhan's again — soft, still, completely innocent.
No movement.
No technique.
Just pure intention.
Then he pulled back and looked at Zhan seriously, like a student waiting for a teacher's evaluation.
"Was that correct?"
Zhan's throat tightened.
God.
He had imagined kissing Yibo countless times — imagined hunger, heat, urgency. But he had never imagined this.
This careful.
This trusting.
This sincere.
His grip unconsciously tightened around Yibo's waist.
"…No," Zhan said hoarsely.
Yibo's eyes widened immediately. "Wrong?"
Zhan's gaze dropped again to those soft lips — the same lips he kept staring at every morning, every evening, every time Yibo spoke without knowing why.
"…Not wrong," Zhan corrected slowly. "Just… incomplete."
Yibo tilted his head. "Incomplete?"
Zhan didn't answer with words.
Instead, he lowered his head again — slowly this time, giving Yibo enough time to pull away if he wanted.
Yibo didn't.
So Zhan kissed him again.
Gentle.
Much gentler than before.
This time his lips moved softly against Yibo's, not rushing, not demanding — guiding.
Teaching.
Yibo's body stiffened for a second in surprise… then slowly relaxed in his arms. His fingers curled more firmly into Zhan's shirt, like he needed something to hold onto while learning something new.
Zhan moved just slightly, brushing his lips against Yibo's once… twice…
A soft sound escaped Yibo's throat — not fear, not protest. Just surprise.
Zhan immediately stopped.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"…Too much?"
Yibo blinked slowly.
Then, after thinking very seriously, he shook his head.
"…No."
A pause.
"…Again?"
That one word hit Zhan harder than anything else that night.
Something dark and restless inside him — the part that always demanded control, perfection, distance — went very, very quiet.
Zhan exhaled slowly.
"…Again," he agreed.
And this time when he kissed Yibo, it wasn't rushed.
Wasn't harsh.
Wasn't angry.
It was patient.
His lips moved slowly, showing, guiding, waiting.
After a few seconds…
Yibo tried to copy him.
Awkwardly.
Clumsily.
But he tried.
His lips moved a little too late, a little too soft, slightly off-rhythm — but the effort was there. Pure and earnest.
Zhan felt it.
And something inside him melted completely.
When they finally separated, Yibo looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
"…Better?"
Zhan stared at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly —
"…Yes."
Yibo smiled.
Not a seductive smile.
Not a knowing smile.
Just a small, proud one — like a child who had finally learned how to tie his shoelaces.
And Zhan realized something terrifying.
He wanted to kiss him again.
Not because he desired him.
But because he liked him.
That realization made his chest tighten.
So instead of kissing him again…
Zhan carefully set Yibo down on the floor.
"…Sleep," he said softly, voice controlled again.
Yibo nodded obediently. "Okay, husband."
He turned and walked toward the bed, completely unaware that every servant outside the door was silently celebrating like they had just witnessed a national victory.
Behind him, Zhan stood still.
His fingers slowly lifted… brushing lightly over his own lips.
They still felt warm.
And for the first time in a very long time—
Zhan didn't hate that feeling.
Morning sunlight slipped softly through the tall curtains, painting the room in pale gold. The mansion was already awake — servants walking quietly, guards posted at their usual spots, the distant sound of utensils from the kitchen echoing faintly through the halls.
Yibo sat on the edge of the bed, still a little sleepy, hair messy, sweater sleeve half covering his fingers as always. He was carefully buttoning the last button wrong for the third time, tongue peeking slightly in concentration.
Across the room, Zhan was adjusting his cufflinks.
Perfect posture.
Perfect suit.
Perfect expression.
At least on the outside.
Inside, his thoughts had been anything but perfect since last night.
His eyes kept drifting.
Not to Yibo's face.
Not to his hands.
Not to his clothes.
To his lips.
Soft.
Quiet.
Oblivious.
Zhan looked away.
Then looked back again.
A servant passing outside the half-open door noticed immediately. Then another. And another.
By now, half the hallway staff had silently realized:
Young master wants something.
Zhan cleared his throat.
"Yibo."
Yibo looked up instantly. "Yes, husband?"
Zhan's gaze flickered once more to those lips before he could stop himself. He hesitated.
He never hesitated.
Yet now his fingers lifted slightly… then stopped mid-air… then finally, slowly, he raised his hand and tapped his own lips once.
Softly.
Barely noticeable.
But not to Yibo.
Zhan's voice dropped to a quiet murmur only meant for him.
"…Here."
Yibo blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Processing.
Servants outside froze like statues. One guard subtly elbowed another.
Did he just—
Yes he did.
He actually did.
Yibo tilted his head, studying Zhan's face carefully like he was solving a serious puzzle.
"…Kiss?" he asked softly.
Zhan didn't answer.
Didn't nod.
Didn't speak.
But he didn't lower his hand either.
That was answer enough.
Yibo's eyes brightened slightly — not shy, not embarrassed, just pleased that he understood correctly.
And unlike normal people…
He didn't care who was watching.
To Yibo, the room only had two people.
Him.
And his husband.
So he stood up.
Walked straight toward Zhan.
Servants outside: internal screaming
One maid grabbed another's wrist. A guard literally held his breath.
Yibo stopped in front of Zhan, close enough that their clothes brushed.
He rose on his toes slightly — still not tall enough — so his hands gently caught Zhan's sleeve for balance.
Then, very naturally…
He pressed his lips to Zhan's.
Soft. Simple. Innocent.
Just like last night.
Gasps — silent but explosive — spread through the hallway.
Zhan's breath hitched.
He had asked for it.
He knew he had.
But he hadn't expected Yibo to do it so easily. So openly. So fearlessly. In front of everyone.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
Yibo pulled back after a moment and looked at him seriously.
"…Enough?" he asked.
Zhan stared.
His mind said: Yes. Stop. Maintain composure.
His heart said: Again.
His eyes dropped to Yibo's lips.
That tiny movement did not go unnoticed.
Not by the servants.
Not by the guards.
And definitely not by Yibo.
"Oh," Yibo said softly, understanding dawning like sunrise. "Not enough."
Before Zhan could react—
Yibo kissed him again.
This time a little longer.
Still clumsy. Still gentle. But longer.
Somewhere outside, a tray almost fell. Someone slapped a hand over someone else's mouth to stop a squeal.
Zhan's control cracked.
His hand lifted automatically, fingers hovering near Yibo's waist — not pulling, not grabbing. Just there. Unsure.
When Yibo pulled back again, his cheeks were faintly pink from effort.
"…Now enough?"
Silence.
Zhan looked at him for a long moment.
"…Go eat breakfast," he said quietly.
Not a yes.
Not a no.
Just that.
Yibo nodded obediently. "Okay, husband."
And he walked out of the room calmly — passing the stunned servants like nothing unusual had happened.
They stared at him like he had just performed a miracle.
One whispered, "He's fearless…"
Another whispered back, "No. He's just Yibo."
Inside the room, Zhan hadn't moved.
His fingers slowly lifted to his lips again.
Still warm.
Still soft.
Still—
He exhaled once, steadying himself, then straightened his coat and walked toward the door, expression composed once more.
But as he passed the servants, one thing was different.
His ears were slightly red.
Dinner that night was quiet.
Not peaceful quiet.
The kind of quiet where spoons touching plates sounded louder than thunder.
Long dining table.
Crystal lights above.
Servants lined along the walls.
Guards near the doors.
And at the center—
Zhan.
And Yibo.
Yibo was eating carefully, holding his spoon with full concentration like it was an important task given by a teacher. He counted softly under his breath while scooping rice.
"…one… two… three… good job Bobo…"
A maid nearby almost melted on the spot.
Zhan, however, wasn't looking at the food.
He was looking at Yibo.
More specifically—
Yibo's lips.
They moved slightly each time he whispered to himself. Soft. Pink. Warm-looking. Distracting.
Zhan took a sip of water.
Looked away.
Looked back.
His jaw tightened faintly.
A guard near the door noticed. Then another servant noticed. Then suddenly half the staff was silently aware again.
It's happening.
Yibo finished chewing proudly and looked up. "Husband. I ate all. See?"
He opened his mouth slightly to show. Completely serious.
Zhan's gaze dropped there.
Instant regret.
His throat tightened.
"…Close your mouth," Zhan said quietly.
Yibo obeyed immediately. "Okay."
Silence again.
Fork. Spoon. Plate.
Tick of the clock.
Zhan's fingers tapped once on the table.
Stopped.
Then slowly…
He lifted his hand.
And tapped his lips.
Once.
The sound was soft.
But in the silent dining hall—
It echoed.
Every servant froze.
One maid's eyes widened so much they almost fell out.
Not here…
He wouldn't—
He is—
Yibo blinked.
Looked at Zhan.
Looked at his lips.
Looked back at his eyes.
"…Now?" he asked softly.
Zhan didn't answer.
Didn't nod.
Didn't speak.
But he didn't lower his hand either.
That meant yes.
Servants internally: PANIC
At the table?!
Young master please—
Chairman sir please—
Yibo didn't see their silent chaos.
To him, a request was a request.
And husband's requests were important.
So he slid down from his chair.
Walked around the table.
Soft steps. Slow steps.
Every eye followed him.
He stopped beside Zhan's chair.
Zhan stayed perfectly still.
Only his fingers curled slightly against the armrest.
Yibo leaned down a little.
Paused.
Then gently held Zhan's sleeve so he wouldn't lose balance—
And pressed his lips to Zhan's.
Soft.
Warm.
Simple.
The room stopped breathing.
No one moved.
No one blinked.
Even the clock seemed scared to tick.
Zhan's eyes darkened slightly.
Not angry.
Something heavier.
Something deeper.
Yibo pulled back after a few seconds and whispered sincerely,
"…Finished."
A servant in the corner almost fainted.
Zhan stared at him.
Expression unreadable.
Then—
Very quietly—
"…Again."
Several staff members nearly collapsed.
Yibo tilted his head. "Again?"
Zhan's fingers tapped his lips once more.
Permission.
Request.
Order.
All three.
"Oh," Yibo nodded seriously. "Okay husband."
And he kissed him again.
Longer this time.
Still clumsy.
Still gentle.
But longer.
Zhan's hand lifted unconsciously and rested lightly at Yibo's waist to steady him.
Gasps were swallowed violently around the room.
When Yibo pulled back, he looked thoughtful.
"…Now enough?"
Zhan paused.
Looked at him.
Then said in a low voice—
"…Eat your food."
Which meant yes.
Yibo smiled softly, satisfied he did well. "Okay."
He went back to his seat and continued eating like nothing historic had just happened.
Around the hall—
Servants stared at plates.
Guards stared at walls.
One maid silently prayed for strength.
Zhan picked up his glass again.
But he didn't drink.
Because he could still feel it.
The softness.
The warmth.
The way Yibo never hesitated.
Never feared.
Never hid.
His thumb brushed once across his lower lip unconsciously.
Across the table, Yibo noticed.
"…Husband," he whispered proudly, "Bobo good kisser?"
A servant choked on air.
Zhan's gaze lifted slowly to him.
Long pause.
"…Eat."
Not denial.
Not agreement.
Just that.
Yibo beamed anyway.
Because that meant he didn't do it wrong.
Night settled slowly over the mansion, wrapping the huge rooms in a quiet, velvety stillness. The lights were dim now, curtains drawn, the world outside hushed as if even the wind knew not to disturb the silence of the master bedroom.
Yibo sat on the bed, legs folded under him, sleeves covering his hands again. He was watching Zhan with full attention — the way a small child watches a teacher write on a board.
Zhan was removing his watch.
Click.
Placed it on the table.
Removed his cufflinks.
Placed them beside it.
Every movement precise. Controlled. Calm.
But his mind wasn't calm.
Because he could feel it again.
That quiet pull.
That soft distraction.
He turned.
Looked at Yibo.
Yibo immediately straightened his back. "…Husband?"
Zhan didn't answer.
His eyes drifted down.
To Yibo's lips.
Soft. Pink. Slightly parted because he was breathing through his mouth without realizing.
Zhan inhaled once.
Slow.
Measured.
Then he lifted his hand.
And tapped his lips.
Once.
The gesture was small.
Familiar now.
Yibo recognized it instantly.
His eyes lit up a little. "…Kiss time?"
Silence.
Zhan didn't confirm.
Didn't deny.
But he didn't lower his hand either.
That meant yes.
Yibo nodded seriously, as if accepting an important task. He shuffled closer on his knees until he was right in front of Zhan, so near their breaths touched.
He paused.
Thinking.
Remembering.
Tonight… he wanted to do it properly.
Because husband always did it properly.
So Yibo leaned in—
Pressed his lips to Zhan's.
Soft.
Warm.
But this time…
He tried to copy.
His lips moved.
A little.
Left.
Right.
Wrong direction.
Too slow.
Then too fast.
Then he bumped noses accidentally and froze.
Zhan didn't move.
Didn't stop him.
Didn't help him.
Just watched.
Yibo tried again.
His lips moved clumsily, unsure, uneven, more effort than technique. He didn't know rhythm, didn't know pressure, didn't know timing — he only knew he wanted to do it right.
His brows scrunched in concentration.
A tiny frustrated sound slipped from his throat.
"…Mmm…"
That was enough.
Zhan's restraint snapped quietly.
His hand lifted.
Large fingers sliding gently along Yibo's jaw…
And then cupping his face.
Carefully.
Firm enough to guide.
Gentle enough not to scare.
Yibo stilled instantly at the touch, eyes blinking up at him.
Zhan leaned closer.
His voice dropped to a low murmur meant only for him.
"…Only open your mouth," he whispered.
Yibo froze, listening with full seriousness.
Zhan's thumb brushed lightly near his cheek.
"…And nibble my lips. Nothing more. Understand?"
Yibo nodded quickly. "Understand."
A pause.
Then, softer—
"…I will handle all."
Those words were quiet.
But they carried something heavy inside them.
Something steady.
Something protective.
Yibo didn't question it.
He trusted it.
So he obeyed.
Slowly…
He opened his mouth slightly.
Just like told.
And gently nibbled Zhan's lower lip with small, careful movements — not biting, just soft testing presses like he was afraid to hurt him.
Zhan's breath faltered.
His hand tightened slightly against Yibo's cheek.
"…Good," he murmured.
Then Zhan moved.
This time the kiss wasn't clumsy.
Wasn't unsure.
Wasn't accidental.
It was slow.
Guided.
Controlled.
His lips brushed Yibo's softly, then again, then again — teaching rhythm without words, showing pace without explanation. Gentle presses. Patient pauses. Soft movements that never rushed, never forced.
Yibo followed exactly as told.
Mouth open slightly.
Soft nibbles.
Nothing more.
Because husband said he would handle all.
And he did.
Zhan adjusted angles. Slowed when Yibo lagged. Stilled when Yibo forgot. Continued when Yibo followed.
Patient.
Measured.
Intent.
Time blurred quietly around them.
The world outside the bed stopped existing.
When Zhan finally pulled back, it wasn't sudden.
It was gradual.
Slow enough that their lips brushed once… twice… before parting.
Yibo blinked up at him.
Breathing a little heavier.
"…I did good?" he whispered.
Zhan looked at him.
Really looked.
Disheveled hair.
Soft eyes.
Swollen lips from effort.
Face still resting in his hand.
A long pause.
Then—
"…Mn."
Just that.
But for Zhan…
That sound meant approval.
Yibo smiled instantly.
Small.
Soft.
Proud.
He leaned forward again and gave Zhan one tiny bonus kiss — quick, light, innocent — then curled under the blanket like a satisfied kitten.
"…Goodnight husband."
Within seconds—
His breathing evened.
Asleep.
Just like that.
Zhan stayed sitting there.
Hand still half-raised in the air where Yibo's face had been.
His gaze slowly dropped to Yibo's lips again.
Slightly red now.
From him.
His jaw tightened faintly.
"…Dangerous," he murmured under his breath.
He didn't clarify whether he meant—
The boy.
Or himself.